Some are born of flesh and bone, and some are born of Fiction.

Tag Archives: death

Like Shula, I think about cutting the ribbon sometimes. I imagine the oppression of life and then I remember that it’s real, that it’s really happening to me. Maybe the world wouldn’t be better off without me, but maybe I would be better off without the world. I thought it would get better but that is the deceit of hoping. I believe I deserve better and everybody tells me I do, but it never happens. There has never been a day when I haven’t been trying and yet I have attained nothing.

I don’t blame individuals anymore. They are characters in one great story of brokenness and pain. Now that I’m 27, I wonder if it is worth continuing. I couldn’t write anything better than the tale that has already been told about me. I’d like to rest please. What I am is no surprise – I was always destined for disappointment. It’s in my nature to want a certain thing that I would never be able to achieve. It was in my childhood and my abuse and the deaths. It was already laid out: and now I’m just lost in the unfolding. I’d rather be a shell, brain dead, deceased, anywhere frankly, but here, trapped in this body, in this world, with this mind and heart and all the passion. It is impossible. I am entirely impossible here. And I have no hope anymore, not a drop.

Take my money. Take my brain. Take my spirit. Take my connections. Take anything of any value to me, for it is worthless to me where I long to be.

We rise to electric music. Heart disturbed, before the eyes. We know something is waiting. The day, as bright and empty as when Adam began. We seek out the sun, always rising on the wrong side of the house. Shrouded in down, we wonder if it would be easier to remain in our damp grave. Heart settles. Mouth smiles. Lazarus rises.

I was sitting there and a sadness came over me, and I immediately imagined my death and all of my friends gathered around me. I thought of him and him and him and someone to hold me during my last days, and that’s when I knew that I wouldn’t tell a soul. I’d ask them to publish me the way it was always meant to be, without me, just my words. I’d ask them to stop the crying; we all have art to attend to. Because when I am gone creation will be all that’s left behind as it was in the beginning. And through creation will I never end. Then the sadness left me.